


Our Little Remedy

by mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Footnotes, M/M, Metaphysically-Improbably Coupling, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova
Summary: In which the Bentley is A Little Bit More than it was before, and Crowley and Aziraphale need to figure out a solution to their sudden romantic complications before they destroy all of central London.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	Our Little Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> This work borrows from both the book and the show in terms of events and characterization, and was written to satisfy the question, "What happens when two supernatural beings with six thousand years of tension between them finally try to realize their feelings?"
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "Moment's Silence (Common Tongue)".
> 
> Thank you to jibberjabber13 and thanatopsiturvy for the beta!

Monday morning dawned bright and glorious, as if the world were relieved not to have ended just yet, and Crowley thought he might go for a drive. He had nothing better to do, and he could play havoc with the lights, cause a traffic jam on a busy street or two. Maybe tempt a football mum into an overpriced coffee to start out the day, if he was feeling especially ambitious. Not that it really mattered – there would be no apocalypse, not yet, and the performance Aziraphale turned out had earned him some breathing room. He could, quite literally, do whatever he wanted.

Aziraphale. Who’d known he had it in him? Apparently he’d done a bang-up job – made the Archangel Michael miracle him a bloody _towel_. Crowley only wished he could have seen it firsthand. He’d done rather brilliantly himself, all things considered. Might have gone overboard with the ‘breathing fire’ bit at the end, but the look on Gabriel’s face had been worth it.

“I think it’ll be quite some time before either of us hear from them,” Aziraphale had said the day prior, when they were finishing up their meal at the Ritz. He’d looked happier than Crowley had seen him in some time, but more than that, he’d looked content. Flushed with satisfaction, hands folded primly over his belly, and the light in his eyes put every crystal chandelier in the place to shame. Crowley poured them each more champagne so he had an excuse to look elsewhere for a moment.

“Think you might be right,” he said. _Them,_ Aziraphale had said. Not ‘Upstairs and Downstairs’, not ‘our sides’. _Them_ , the opposite of _us_. “And what are you going to do with all this newfound free time of yours?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, brightening further, “there’s this lovely little crepe stand that’s opened up just a few blocks from the station – “

“You and your bloody crepes, I swear – “

“ _And,”_ Aziraphale interjected, somewhere between exasperated and fond, “the owner, as it turns out, just moved here from Paris, so I was planning on going sometime this week. You’re more than welcome to join me.”

“We could go right now, if you like,” Crowley said without thinking, and Aziraphale blinked at him. His laugh was a little uncertain.

“My dear, we just ate a five-course meal. I don’t think I need crepes quite yet.”

“Please, when do you not? Got yourself locked up during a revolution for them.” Crowley leaned back in his chair and signaled for their waiter to bring the check, one leg crossed at the knee. He wasn’t usually much for eating—oh sure, it was alright, but he didn’t experience rapturous bliss at the hands of a good tiramisu the way Aziraphale did—but just then going to the crepe stand seemed like the most important thing in the world. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.”

“Of course not, it’s just – “

“Come on, no time like the present. You can walk off all the mussels and Cornish lamb.”

“ _Kentish_ lamb,” Aziraphale corrected absently. [1] “Crowley, it’s fifteen blocks from here.”

“Well, that just means you’ll be hungry again by the time we get there, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but his eyes were still bright, crinkling at the corners, and after another half-second of silence he relented and set his napkin on his plate. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a look.”

They’d walked all fifteen blocks after that, not quite touching, taking in the warm evening air and the indigo glow of the sky. There was, Crowley had learned, a difference between not touching and Not Quite Touching; not touching was something you didn’t think about, while Not Quite Touching haunted your thoughts long after the opportunity had come and gone. Not touching was nothing. Not Quite Touching was the awareness that you _could,_ in fact, be touching, if only one of you would move a little closer or walk a little slower, each brush of your coat sleeves a reminder of proximity. But he hadn’t moved closer, and Aziraphale hadn’t walked slower, and so they’d continued on without touching. It wasn’t something they did often, touching. Crowley had accepted that long ago. There was no reason for it to start bothering him now.

The owner of the crepe stand was, indeed, from Paris, and also rather confused about why he was still at the stand when they arrived, since he’d closed down for the day an hour earlier. But they’d split an order of strawberry crepes, and Aziraphale had tipped him well and sent him off with a spring in his step, so that turned out alright. Crowley had even enjoyed the crepes. He’d slouched on the bench, picking at chunks of fruit while Aziraphale wiped powdered sugar off his fingers with his handkerchief, a streetlight humming steadily nearby. Neither of them said much. When they were done, they rose and began walking again, back the way they’d come; Crowley had already decided he didn’t feel like going it on foot, so when they turned the corner the Bentley was suddenly there, idling at the curb. He’d turned to Aziraphale, one hand on the driver’s side door.

“Want me to drop you at yours?”

It made sense– he had a car, Aziraphale didn’t. Might as well offer him a lift. It didn’t have to _mean_ anything. Stupid, really, to care so much about the answer.

“That would be nice,” Aziraphale said brightly, and the passenger door to the Bentley swung open, ushering him inside. “As long as you promise not to do ninety through Central London again.”

“I guess I can manage it,” Crowley’s mouth said, even as the rest of him stuttered to a halt. Thankfully Aziraphale was already getting into the car, so he couldn’t see Crowley’s expression. Crowley himself caught a glimpse of his own face in the rearview as he slithered behind the wheel. It was _wretchedly_ soft, and he hastened to put on a scowl before Aziraphale caught it.

The drive to the bookshop had been too short, even though he’d taken the scenic route and shifted the timers so all the red lights lasted five minutes. Even demons could only do so much about the passage of time. The Bentley glided to a stop at the curb, engine idling soft in the night, and Crowley stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel. All the lights of London shone before them, fallen stars on a distant hill, and they sat in front of it, alone. He felt like he should say something. Anything, really – anything to keep Aziraphale from getting out of the car and going inside. But what was there to say? _Don’t go,_ like they were on _Eastender_ s? _[2] We could go anywhere you want right now, _perhaps, or _look, let me come in, just for a little while, because I’ve got this feeling that if I go now I’ll never see you again, and maybe, now that we’ve narrowly escaped certain destruction, I thought –_

See?

Nothing worth saying at all.

“G’night, angel,” he’d said instead, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “’spose I’ll catch you around.”

“Of course you will,” Aziraphale said, unbuckling his seatbelt. A pause followed, his hand lingering on the latch. “Crowley?”

That, Crowley thought, was the worst part in many ways – his heart didn’t technically need to beat, but it had, just a little, when Aziraphale said his name like that, as if he weren’t the only one wondering if the night truly had to end there.

“Hm?”

Aziraphale wavered a moment longer, other hand balled tightly in his lap. Then he opened the door, and all the tension was sucked out of the cab, leaving behind only the abrupt sensation of something unfinished. “Your driving really has improved, you know,” he said, and climbed out of the car, smoothing his coat. Crowley had no idea how to respond. So he scoffed, because it was safe, and watched Aziraphale relax as they drifted back onto familiar ground. “Right. Erm. Thank you for the ride.”

“’Course. Not like it’s out of my way or anything.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said again. His smile was still there, a little bit anxious and incredibly fond, as it often was, and Crowley had to look away again – he never could quite handle the full force of that smile. Not when it was aimed at him. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

He’d shrugged, because he still couldn’t look. “You always do, don’t you?”

Aziraphale had gone inside then, with one last farewell, and Crowley had pulled away from the curb, rolling down the windows. Cool summer air rushed in to fill the space left behind, washing over his face. He was sure he’d missed something, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

But that had been yesterday, and today was already off to a much better start, on account of not being kidnapped by his former associates and dragged back Downstairs; on the curb in front of his flat, the Bentley waited. Crowley pocketed his keys and slid on his sunglasses, humming the first few bars of _There is a Light That Never Goes Out._

\----------

Now, it must be noted here that Adam Young, formerly the Son of Satan and currently grounded, had indeed put everything back the way it was before the (almost) end of days. But the powers of the antichrist were well beyond that of your standard, garden-variety demon, and as such, there had been some unintended side-effects – most notably, in the vicinity of Crowley’s car.

The Bentley, like everything Adam fixed, had come back just a Little Bit More than it was before. In most cases, this wasn’t an issue; however, the Bentley had about ninety years of demonic influence prior to being burnt to crisp under its metaphorical belt, and in the days following the Apoca-wasn’t, it had discovered three important things.

First, it was a car.

Second, it really did quite like Queen after all[3]

Third, and most importantly, it was Tired. Not in a literal sense, of course, but a different, equally valid kind of sense. A metaphorical sense[4] Ninety years of listening to ill-concealed pining and nattering and talking in circles ( _you go too fast for me_ indeed) had been exhausting; another ninety would be unbearable. There was only so long one could tolerate being driven through greater London at breakneck speed while a demon chain-smoked furiously behind the wheel and sang off-key to _I’ll Be Your Mirror._ No, it had decided that morning while it waited from Crowley to emerge, there had been quite enough of that. Measures would have to be taken.

Crowley, it must be noted, wasn’t aware of his car’s newfound existential crisis, or of its equally newfound resolve. All he knew was that he’d intended to go for a nice, long drive to nowhere in particular, and his afternoon had been ruined before he even made it into Greater London. The Bentley had mysteriously stalled out in front of the wine and cheese bar on Villiers until he’d gone inside and picked up a bottle of port and a wheel of Lancashire, and he’d only made it another block before it shifted itself into reverse.

“Stupid bloody car,” he growled, giving the steering wheel a thwack. This time he made it to the stoplight before the engine died. “Shitshit _shit_ no! _No_!”

In almost a century of owning the Bentley, it had never once had an issue. Mostly because he wouldn’t let it. He gave it another whack, willing the car to move, but it remained motionless, stubborn. Horns blared behind him.

“Oh, come on!”

He Pushed again, but this time it felt as though something were pushing back. He Pushed harder, knuckles going white where they curled around the wheel, and little by little, the engine reluctantly hitched to life. The wheels, however, stayed put. Crowley bared his teeth, ignoring the irritated queue gathering behind him. Come to think of it, he’d been having issues since he avoided driving past the bookshop earlier that day—

The radio crackled to life without warning, Peter Gabriel’s voice crooning from the speakers about the book of love, and the wheels budged a fraction of a centimeter. Crowley’s sunglasses slid down his nose. A cacophony of horns went off in the background. Finally, _finally_ , the Bentley gave in and went, just as the light changed to yellow. Crowley immediately turned off at the nearest corner and went screeching to a halt in a half-empty parking lot, wrestling the keys out of the ignition. The engine let out a distinctly spiteful rumble, then shut off. Crowley sat back, staring at the dashboard.

“What,” he said, “the fuck.”

The Bentley didn’t respond. Not that he was expecting it to. Cautiously, he prodded at the radio, then at the dashboard. A split second later, the glovebox popped open, and Crowley flinched as an avalanche of CD cases came spilling out. One landed face-down on the passenger seat, and despite the warning prickle at the back of his neck, he reached out and flipped it over. Pink Floyd’s _Wish You Were Here_ stared back at him.

“Oh, _hilarious_ ,” he sneered, tossing it in the backseat. “Very subtle.”

The glovebox rattled condescendingly, another CD sliding out. It was a _KISS_ album. This one didn’t even make it to the floor; Crowley snatched it up and hurled it out the open window, where it could go harangue someone else.

“You don’t get to have an opinion on this,” he told it. “You’re a car.”

 _A car that’s been driving your sorry infernal arse around for the last century,_ the silence seemed to imply. Which was ridiculous, thinking silence from a car could imply anything other than it being off. And yet.

“This is all Adam’s fault, isn’t it? When he put everything back, it made you…” He gestured about, looking for something to accuse. “Like _this._ ”

The keys were still in Crowley’s hand, but the radio flipped back on, static hissing from the speakers as the channels scrolled. _Baby come back!_ the singer implored, guitar wailing in the background as the chorus kicked in. _You can blame it all on me…_

“Been sentient for one day and it thinks it’s Bill bloody Bailey,” Crowley muttered, flipping the radio back off. “This is none of your business. Are we clear? Not even remotely in the same _area_ as your business. Getting me from Point A to Point B? _That_ is your business. Nothing else.” And alright, yes, ‘point A to point B’ usually meant ‘his flat to the bookshop’ or ‘St. James’ or wherever he was meeting Aziraphale that day, but it wasn’t like he _needed_ to drive. He just enjoyed it more than the alternatives. And sure, he’d been giving Aziraphale rides quite a lot recently (and back in the ‘70s, and while they were keeping an eye on Warlock, and of course that time after the church in Berlin), including the odd moment they’d had last night, and come to think of it, the shop the car had stalled out of in front of earlier was one of Aziraphale’s favorites—

“So, what? You’re going to go on strike until I drive to the bookshop with the stupidly expensive wine and cheese you manipulated me into buying and see if he’s, I don’t know, up for an impromptu midday picnic in the park? Is that what you want?”

The silence was resoundingly smug.

“Oh, go on then,” Crowley said, throwing up his hands in disgust.

The Bentley, somewhat pointedly, began to play _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy._

\----------

Aziraphale looked surprised to see him when he turned up, but no less delighted for it. “Crowley! What brings you here?” The wrinkle between his brows made an appearance. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine,” Crowley said, pausing by one of the nearby shelves. _19 th Century Poets, _the placard assured him. “Was just in the neighborhood, thought I might come by. Unless you’re busy,” he added, trying not to sound too hopeful. “S’nothing important.”

“Not at all, dear boy.” Aziraphale was still wearing his reading glasses, and they slid down his nose as he smiled, shutting the book on the desk. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d seen Aziraphale in reading glasses before. It was unexpectedly distracting. “Shall I make us a cup of tea? I can pop upstairs and put the kettle on.”

“Actually,” and here Crowley glanced back at the door, where the Bentley waited just outside by the curb, a red-checked blanket and wicker basket in its backseat that definitely hadn’t been there when he’d arrived, “I… thought we could go to St. James. Bloody nice day out and all. We could get drunk, watch the sunset, that kind of thing.”

It was the soppiest thing that had come out of his mouth in several centuries, and the sweat on his brow hissed, sizzling faintly in embarrassment. Aziraphale beamed, which made it both better and much, much worse.

“What a lovely idea! I’ll get my coat.”

St. James was unusually crowded that afternoon, children laughing and playing while their parents laid blankets out in the grass and held hands. Everyone was glad to be alive today, it seemed, even if they weren’t quite sure why, and Crowley led them to a more secluded area, where the trees encircled the grass in a little clearing. Whether or not the clearing had existed before twenty minutes ago was immaterial; it was there now, and Aziraphale looked delighted as he took it in, coat folded neatly over his arm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of the park.”

“Sure we have. ‘s always been here,” Crowley said as he did his best to lay out the blanket without looking like he cared too much. Aziraphale gave him a little sideways glance, his smile never once wavering.

“Well, we’ll have to come more often. The view is marvelous.”

It wasn’t long before Crowley was forced to concede that all in all, St. James hadn’t been a bad idea. He sprawled out on the blanket, drinking while Aziraphale made delighted noises over the Lancashire and butter crackers. The sun was just beginning to show signs of setting, melting pink and gold over the treetops, and families were starting to pack up, getting ready to head home for the day. It was a comfortable sort of silence, with none of the previous night’s tension, and together they watched the sun’s descent, pond water rippling with orange and red like the encroaching autumn. Aziraphale picked up his glass and clinked it gently against Crowley’s, expression serene. His hair was the color of sandstone in the dying light.

“A toast,” he said. “To summer.”

To the end of one thing, and the beginning of another. Crowley drained his glass.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley glanced over to find him smiling. “This was really… quite a nice surprise.”

It hurt, that smile, the way it hurt whenever Crowley smoked too much and thought about holy water in tartan thermoses, because. Well. Aziraphale was a bloody angel, for whoever’s sake, he was a being of pure love. He loved Earth down to its last molecule and everything on it, the smile didn’t _mean_ anything.

But still—sometimes—

“Nice, yeah.” He cleared his throat, reached for the bottle of port. “Hell of a view.”

“Well, that too, I just meant… I wasn’t expecting to, ah, see you again so soon, after everything.”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley blinked. “You weren’t.”

“Not that I’m not delighted!” Aziraphale assured him, voice rising peculiarly _._ “I just thought… I don’t know. You might want to take one of those decade-long naps you’re so fond of, now that it’s all over.”

Crowley made a noise like _‘tuh’,_ deep in the back of his throat. “Satan’s sake, angel. I just got the brass off my back for the first time in centuries, and you think I’m going to have a nap?” He took a sip of port, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing. “We can do whatever we want now. No sense in wasting it.”

“I,” Aziraphale said, and then, “well,” followed by a thoughtful silence. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Always am,” Crowley said, and polished off the glass.

Aziraphale smiled, made a noise that could have been a laugh, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he was doing that anxious hand-wringing bit again, his eyes never once leaving Crowley’s face. He opened his mouth, then closed it, fingers twisting around the stem of his glass before he set it aside. Crowley’s stomach twisted right along with them.

“I can’t seem to find the words I need,” Aziraphale said finally. His voice was soft, but there was a curious weight to it, like distant thunder promising a storm. “I confess, I’ve been looking for them for quite some time, and they’re never…” He waved a hand absently, the furrow between his brows like a slash of ink. Part of Crowley wanted to reach out, smooth it away with his thumb. The other part howled at him to vanish, discorporate, flee the scene any way he could. He did neither. Aziraphale’s hand fell back by his side. “All my books,” he said, “and I still have absolutely no idea how to say this.”

“Angel, you really don’t need to—"

“No, I do. I _do_ need to.” Aziraphale’s voice broke, leaving shards of itself in the silence that followed. They stared at one another. In all their time, Crowley had never heard him sound like that. It hit him like a struck tuning fork, reverberating deep in his chest. He sat up without quite meaning to.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and he sounded close to desperate now, “you have to know how wonderful I think you are—"

“Stop it,” Crowley hissed, even as that wretched softness wrapped its hand around his heart once more and dug its fingers in deep. “You don’t have to say that. You don’t have t—"

“That’s what I’ve been _trying_ to say!” Aziraphale rarely raised his voice, but it went up an octave now in distress, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “All this time, Crowley. I want to say so much more, but – you must know I see that by now, how splendid you are. How g—"

“ _Angel,_ ” Crowley said, and he meant it as a warning but it came out like blasphemy, a fragment of prayer on a demon’s tongue. Aziraphale’s hand reached out, fingertips caressing his cheek. Soft, warm; he leaned into it before he could stop himself, and his heart splintered into more pieces than he could ever recover. “If this is pity, or – or – “

“It’s not,” Aziraphale murmured, and kissed him.

Crowley had never once, in six thousand years, allowed himself to imagine what kissing Aziraphale might be like. Close calls in moments of weakness, sure, but he’d never actually gone through with it. Not because he was above torturing himself—he wasn’t—but because he’d known even then once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. You could only hunger for so long. Now, though, he was glad he hadn’t. Any fantasy he’d been able to conjure up would have been shamed by the simple press of Aziraphale’s lips against his, both palms cupping his face like he was something worth holding. An enormous shiver ripped down his spine, and without any warning, his wings burst wide, startling a nearby flock of pigeons into flight.

They pulled apart at once, Crowley’s hands still curled around the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat, Aziraphale’s hands still hovering near his face. He cleared his throat, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and his wings fluttered a little in response. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide.

“Does… that always happen?”

“Never,” said Crowley, who had temporarily forgotten he didn’t need to breathe, and consequently was having trouble doing so. Aziraphale reached out and brushed a finger over one of the downy feathers jutting out near Crowley’s shoulder, thoughtful. Crowley shivered a little, hands bunching in Aziraphale’s coat.

“Why didn’t mine do that, I wonder?”

“Well,” Crowley said, leaning in, and Aziraphale went pink to the tips of his ears, “we could always give it another go,” and then their lips touched and every fire hydrant within the tri-county area exploded.

\----------

An hour and a half later, a very wet, very put-out demon got back in the Bentley, accompanied by an equally damp angel. They hadn’t been able to miracle themselves clean in front of the firefighters, all of whom had asked entirely too many questions, and as soon as they got into the car Crowley raked his fingers through his (now-dry) hair and fixed Aziraphale with a look.

“Why did you keep talking to them?”

“What else was I supposed to do? They kept asking me if I knew anything.”

“Anything about the _situation,_ angel, with the exploding hydrants. Not anything in general!”

“You know I can’t lie,” Aziraphale said miserably, fiddling with his bowtie. “I had to get around it somehow.”

Crowley snorted and turned the key in the ignition, the Bentley’s engine purring to life. “What do you have at the shop?” Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look. “To drink,” he amended, pulling away from the curb. “I need one.”

“Right. There’s a lovely _grand cru_ pinot noir aging in the back somewhere, or—oh! I also have a bottle of Château Roubine that I’ve been waiting to break into. Eighteen-forty-six, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Open it,” Crowley said, shifting gears around a car going just below the speed limit. A horn blared at them in protest. “We’re going to need it.”

They drove in silence, the speakers crackling with whatever classical station Aziraphale had managed to find, and Crowley did his best not to hit any curbs or pedestrians whenever he thought about Aziraphale’s mouth on his, which was most of the way to the shop. Barely even a kiss, and yet those few seconds now occupied most of his mental real estate. How mortals survived this kind of thing all the time, he would never know. How did they do it? Walk around all the time with this kind of _want_ inside them, almost too big for their skins once they’d had a taste? Just thinking about it was exhausting. It didn’t help that Aziraphale kept looking at him with these sidelong glances, out of the corner of his eye; looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time, all flushed and fluttery with a smile he couldn’t quite suppress. At one point Crowley caught him touching his lips, finger dimpling the bottom one, and nearly drove them into a lamppost. He kept his eyes on the road after that.[5]

By the time they got back to the bookshop, Crowley felt seconds away from jittering clean out of his skin. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had – Aziraphale was in the passenger seat, looking the same as he always did, except now he was Aziraphale, Who Crowley Had Kissed, and Crowley had no idea how he was supposed to survive that bit of knowledge if he couldn’t _do_ anything about it. But he wasn’t about to try in the Bentley, not after earlier, so he popped the lock and threw the door open, motioning for Aziraphale to do the same. No sooner had he set foot on the curb did Crowley take his hand, pulling him close, and watched that delightful flush crawl up his throat to his cheeks.

(Red-pink, like apple skin.)

“Ah… Crowley?”

“Testing something,” Crowley murmured, and lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips.

Shaking hands was one thing. Holding them was another entirely, and Aziraphale’s was soft, with traces of ink on his thumb and forefinger. Crowley turned it over, placed a kiss squarely in the center of his palm. Aziraphale made a noise akin to a leaky teakettle, and the nearest streetlight flickered, buzzing in the twilight. Crowley couldn’t resist – his tongue flickered along Aziraphale’s skin, tracing a line up to the pad of his middle finger. When his lips closed around it, Aziraphale’s free hand dug into his shoulder. The streetlight crackled, light fizzling in a shower of sparks. They both stared at it, fingers entwined.

“Was that the test?” Aziraphale asked after a moment. He made no move to disentangle himself, his face only inches from Crowley’s. Crowley had meant to let go, he had, but salt-sweat and old parchment and sunlight lingered still on his tongue, and he found that he couldn’t. He wanted to kiss every one of Aziraphale’s fingers, taste the exposed skin of his wrist; wanted to hear him gasp and know he was the one who put the noise in that divine throat. When he buried his free hand in Aziraphale’s curls, they felt exactly like how he always thought they would, and Aziraphale said “ _ah,”_ in a voice like sand crumbling beneath the waves as he surged to meet him. They kissed, hard, frantic, Aziraphale’s mouth opening for him just as every single streetlight in downtown London blew out, plunging them all into darkness.

Thankfully there weren’t many people about, but the sounds of rising panic and muffled exclamations began from the buildings on either side, distant voices shouting somewhere on another street, and Aziraphale and Crowley looked at one another, still all tangled up in front of the bookshop.

“We should probably go inside,” Aziraphale said.

“Way ahead of you, angel.”

\----------

It was easy enough to miracle the electricity back on. Figuring out why it had gone out in the first place, on the other hand, was proving a skosh more difficult. Mostly because Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about touching Aziraphale. Now that he was allowed to touch – _encouraged,_ if the looks Aziraphale kept giving him over his wineglass were anything to go by – he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to concentrate on anything else. Six thousand years was entirely too much time to make up for in one evening.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said finally, draped across the overstuffed couch in Aziraphale’s flat. “Can’t even kiss you without taking out half the block.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, gaze drifting down to Crowley’s mouth. “We do seem to have an… adverse effect on the environment,” and here his eyes lingered in such a way that Crowley had to get up and pour himself another drink, because if he didn’t then he was going to have to pin Aziraphale up against the bookshelves and kiss him again, and that wasn’t getting them anywhere[6] Behind him, Aziraphale rustled about at the desk. “The question is, _why_?”

“Dunno.” Crowley took a swig, hand flopping about vaguely at the wrist as he attempted to illustrate his thoughts. “Maybe it’s some sort of… forcefield. Like two magnets when you try to push them together. Built-in defense to keep this from happening.”

“Well, that can’t be right. They would have told us if our corporations came with demon-repelling forcefields.” Aziraphale came over then, holding out his empty glass for Crowley to refill. “I do have to wonder, though.”

Crowley handed the glass back. “Wonder what?”

“If this has happened to anyone else.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “You know. Any other angel-demon… arrangements.”

“Perfect, that’s exactly what I wanted to think about.” Crowley’s lip curled. “Our bosses, _fraternizing_.”

“Who do you think,” Aziraphale started, then paled and cleared his throat again. “On second thought, perhaps it’s best we not go down that path.”

“Best not,” Crowley agreed.

Silence fell over the flat as they sipped their wine, avoiding eye contact. The clock ticked loudly in the background. Aziraphale finished his drink. Crowley examined his fingernails. Aziraphale picked up a book seemingly at random, flipped through the first few pages, then set it down again.

“So—"

“Gabriel and Beelzebub,” Crowley said.

“ _Ga_ – really? You think so?”

“I know so. Those two got up to something funny in the sixties, mark my words.” Crowley tapped the side of his nose. “The Prince of Hell comes slinking back in at the end of the decade with a _clean_ suit? And no boils? It’s just not right.”

“Michael always struck me as more of the type, personally. Gabriel doesn’t even know about the back channels.”

“The what?”

“Never mind all that,” Aziraphale said brightly, and picked up the mostly-empty bottle. “More wine?”

There was no reason not to polish it off, and in fact, every reason _to_ polish it off and open another, and it was an extremely drunk Crowley that found himself sprawled across Aziraphale’s couch again as the night wore on, legs dangling over the armrest and sunglasses askew. Stacks of books rose around them in unsteady paper columns, half-hiding Aziraphale from view. Only his back and part of one leg were visible, slumped over at the desk.

“Should we sober up?” Crowley asked the ceiling, which had been threatening to spin for the last several minutes. He didn’t particularly want to, but it seemed important to ask.

“What’s the point?” Aziraphale’s voice floated from behind a pile of eighteenth-century classics, morose. “Rather be miserable and drunk than miserable and… not drunk.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it, head lolling back on the cushions. “Compelling point.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, sounding pleased, but it only lasted a moment before he sat back heavily in his chair, swiveling so he could see Crowley. “Er. What were we talking about?”

“When?”

“Before the sobering up.”

“Right.” Crowley snapped his fingers (or rather, attempted to snap—they were too sweaty to make much noise). “Solutions!” He tried snapping again. His fingers still refused to cooperate, so he thumped the side of the couch for emphasis. “Solutions to this whole… wotsit. Thing. Problem. Issue. Take your pick.”

“Issue,” Aziraphale said.

“We stopped the world from ending, didn’t we? Stopped the… the seas from boiling and whatnot. Kept the Kraken right down there—” Crowley pointed emphatically at the carpet— “in his watery… flat.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Kraken’s too big for a flat.”

“My _point_ is, if we did all that, we can figure something out. Probably.” Crowley went to sit up, only to decide he couldn’t be bothered partway through, and ended up laying on his side with one leg still jutting over the arm of the couch. Upon trying to think of something, and coming up blank, he raised one arm and pointed a limp finger in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Anything?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Blast. Alright.” Crowley rolled onto his back, only to smack the couch in triumph a moment later. “Bomb shelter.”

“What?”

“Bomb shelter. We find one, lock ourselves in. That’d keep everything… you know. _Contained_.” He pointed at Aziraphale again, accentuated with a little flourish of his wrist. “Boom. Solved it.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. The pause hurtled past pregnant and dove straight into uncomfortable, and sudden dread gripped Crowley’s throat, cutting him off. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“Look, the bomb shelter thing… it’s a work in progress, y’know.”

“Perhaps we ought to sober up,” Aziraphale said. The ‘up’ came out as a sigh.

It was just as well. Crowley didn’t feel much like being drunk anymore.

Expunging alcohol from one’s body was never a pleasant experience. This time was worse, because Aziraphale only ever wanted to sober up when it was time for a serious conversation, and Crowley pulled a face as the last of it receded, leaving only the taste of stale wine in his mouth. Aziraphale was doing that thing he did sometimes when he got nervous, where his hands kept fluttering around like frantic birds, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds. Like they were looking for somewhere safe to land and finding nothing but open water.

He didn’t want to ask the question. But that was always what he ended up doing, didn’t he? Asking the questions no one else would, even when he knew it’d cost him.

“What is it?”

There was another long, horrible silence, during which Crowley had to resist the urge to get up and start drinking again just to fill it. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“I think,” Aziraphale said after a moment, fussing with his bowtie and looking everywhere but Crowley’s direction, “that perhaps we should slow things down. Take a break, and – and reevaluate.”

Crowley stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Cities rose and fell and stars were snuffed out in the time it took to formulate a response. “You kissed _me_ ,” he said, because it was true and he didn’t know what else to say, and Aziraphale’s hands froze, falling back into his lap.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I suppose I did.”

Really, it was just bloody like Aziraphale, to throw the brakes off without warning, only to slam them on again moments later. Crowley struggled upright, legs going every which way before he got himself back into a sitting position. “Fine,” he said, and the word sloshed like dregs in his mouth. “Guess we’ll do it your way, then. Like always.”

Aziraphale went very still.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t act so shocked.” It should have felt good, to finally say something. It should have been a relief. “It’s always about how you want things to go, isn’t it?” He forced himself to raise and lower one shoulder, a cardboard cutout of a shrug. “Don’t know why I expected this to be any different.”

He stood up, legs half-numb. Aziraphale was already heaving himself to his feet in the same moment, one hand outstretched, like he could stop Crowley through sheer force of will.

“But what if it’s a sign?” His voice had gone up an octave, pleading. “Crowley, what if… what if it’s _us_? I don’t want to cause a national emergency every time we so much as hold hands!”

Crowley almost laughed, but it got stuck in his throat. “You think this is a _sign?_ What, like this is all just some great big bloody signal from Upstairs warning you off me?”

“Crowley, _no_. I didn’t mean it like that – “

“You said you thought I was wonderful _,_ ” Crowley sneered, because it hurt to say it any other way, and watched Aziraphale flinch, guilt spreading across his face like spilled ink.

“I did, my dear, truly. You _are_ wonderful.”

“ _Then why are you doing this_?”

“It’s been six thousand years, Crowley! Six thousand years of trying to do the right thing, skirting the rules for your sake as well as mine, believing that the Almighty—” He broke off sharply, face flushing. His next words were careful. Brittle. “Forgive me for not being able to immediately shake it all off for the sake of your comfort.”

“Oh, let’s not kid ourselves, angel.” Crowley’s sunglasses had slid down the bridge of his nose. He shoved them back in place violently. “It’s never been about my comfort.”

Aziraphale’s expression shifted, mouth opening and closing weakly. A visible swallow, and then his eyebrows arched, gaze locking directly onto Crowley’s face.

_Don’t say it. Don’t you bloody say it—_

“I forgive you,” uttered with the same soft, self-righteous air he’d adopted the last time, and Crowley had heard quite enough for one night. For several, even. He turned on his heels and stalked towards the door, ignoring the part of him that waited expectantly for something that wouldn’t come. Aziraphale hadn’t come after him last time they’d fought. There was no reason it ought to be different now, not when one of them was so afraid of what that difference might mean. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but his presence was so evident that they might as well have been embracing. It was unbearable. Crowley yanked open the door, hard enough that the hinges shrieked in protest, and stopped, spinning back around. It didn’t feel as good as it should have, the anger. It was going to leave him hollow when it subsided, his insides all burnt to ash.

“You know, I’m the demon!” he shouted. “I’m supposed to be the selfish one! Me!”

If Aziraphale said anything, the slamming door drowned it out entirely.

\----------

The worst part about being mad at Aziraphale was that Crowley could never seem to manage it as well as he would have liked. He had his pride, of course—he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move—but by the time the following Sunday rolled around, he’d taken to glaring at his phone at random intervals, trying to intimidate it into ringing.[7]It wasn’t that he was _lonely,_ for Sa—G— _someone’s_ sake. Aziraphale owed him an apology, so if anyone broke first, it ought to be him. Crowley wasn’t so desperate for company that he couldn’t wait a few more days.

He spent most of Monday morning trying to figure out how to both call Aziraphale and salvage the remains of his dignity. Upon concluding they were mutually exclusive, he resolved to take a three-year nap and try again later. He was just starting to get settled when someone knocked on the front door, and as soon as he heard it Crowley froze, staring out into the hall. It would be just like Aziraphale, to turn up without calling first—

Fuck. What if it wasn’t Aziraphale?

Fuck, what if it _was_ Aziraphale? He was wearing flannels, he wasn’t prepared for this. The knocking came again, politely insistent, and Crowley snarled and threw his hands up in resignation, stalking down the hall. The front door cracked open to reveal Aziraphale, eyes tired and curls mussed. The plant in his grasp spilled over the sides of its terracotta pot, dark green leaves edged in yellow. He mustered up a smile, and Crowley leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

“ _Sansevieria trifasciata,_ ” Aziraphale said, holding out the pot like a beatification. “Or golden hahnii, if you prefer.” He smiled again, somewhat anxiously now. “It’s a snake plant.”

Crowley scoffed, mostly because he didn’t want Aziraphale to see that he didn’t hate it. “Dreadfully clever of you.”

“It’s a bit obvious, I know, but I felt as though I owed you a proper apology.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “That is to say, I _do_ owe you an apology. Perhaps more than one.” Crowley leaned against the doorframe, giving him the ‘go ahead’ gesture, and he exhaled, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. “The other night, I allowed my fear to get the better of me, and I treated you poorly as a result. I wanted to believe I was doing what was for the best, but… well.” He gestured vaguely at the space between them.

“Obviously,” Crowley said.

“I’m afraid I’ve been,” and here Aziraphale’s throat worked for a moment as he swallowed, “rather selfish.”

 _Yes you bloody well have,_ Crowley almost said, but he couldn’t remember the last time Aziraphale had apologized to him for—well, anything, and he wasn’t keen to start another row. He sighed and moved out of the doorway. Aziraphale came inside hesitantly, with a grateful look, and Crowley realized it was the second time Aziraphale had set foot in his flat in a week. Apparently all it took was the end of the world. He draped himself on the couch and watched Aziraphale flounder, uncertain, in a sea of white leather for a moment before taking pity on him. “Sit _down_ , angel. I’m not going to bite.”

“Right. Yes,” Aziraphale said, still standing. Crowley got the impression he was reconsidering having come at all, but before he had a chance to be properly annoyed, Aziraphale sunk down into the chair opposite him, plant still in hand. “You saved them,” he said.

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley blinked. “What?”

“My books, in Berlin.” Aziraphale cast about for a place to set the plant aside, settling on the coffee table. “Come to think of it, you saved Agnes Nutter’s book, too. I’m not sure I thanked you on either occasion.”

“Angel—”

“No, that’s not entirely true, is it?” Aziraphale shook his head, like Crowley hadn’t spoken at all. “I didn’t. In fact, it occurs to me that there are a great many things I’ve never thanked you for.”

“Right.” Crowley shifted on the couch, more uncomfortable by the second. “Really no need to mention any of it.”

“I suppose I felt it necessary to keep my distance,” Aziraphale went on mercilessly, hands folded in his lap. “We were still on opposite sides, after all, and if I thanked you—if I gave voice to all the things you’d done for me, and my gratitude—it would have made it impossible to continue telling myself certain things. Things I relied on up until somewhat recently.” He couldn’t quite seem to meet Crowley’s eyes, his posture rigid. “I suppose I’d wished you’d somehow read my mind, cowardly as that is, and spare me from having to tell you myself. But that’s unfair to you, and I… _I’ve_ been unfair to you.”

It was Crowley’s turn to swallow. “Tell me what?”

“That I’m sorry for all of it,” Aziraphale said, “and that I love you.”

“You do,” Crowley said dumbly, because there was suddenly no room in his head for anything beyond Aziraphale’s voice, echoing _I love you, I love you,_ and then Aziraphale himself was abandoning the chair for the couch, leather squeaking as he grasped Crowley’s hands in his.

“I’ve missed you terribly, these last few days.” Crowley wanted to look away, protect himself, but he couldn’t. Not in the face of that gaze, so open and familiar, so sincere. “You are so dear to me, my boy. Now, more than ever, I want you to know that.”

Crowley made a choked-off noise that could have been a laugh, fingers flexing around Aziraphale’s. “Thought you said we ought to take a step back.”

“As established, I’ve been something of a fool,” Aziraphale said, eyes crinkling at the corners. His hands were warm, his thigh solid against Crowley’s hip, and it barely took any effort at all for Crowley to wind up in his lap, long legs hooked over Aziraphale’s knee. Barely any effort to wind an arm around his neck and pull him in to press their foreheads together, free hands still tangled, before tilting his chin up for a kiss. The building rumbled warningly, the couch creaking, and Aziraphale pulled back, expression regretful. “I’d rather not be responsible for the collapse of your flat, however.”

“Bugger,” Crowley said. “Bomb shelter’s not sounding so bad now, is it?”

“I suppose we are going to have to find a solution of some sort,” Aziraphale conceded, and cleared his throat, ears gone somewhat pink. “Preferably soon. This situation is simply untenable.”

“Soon, eh?” Crowley grinned in that particular way he reserved for when he was feeling especially smug. “Any particular reason?”

Aziraphale flushed, but a strange calm settled over him in the same breath, and he looked down at Crowley, slipping his hand from Crowley’s to rest it on his thigh. “You ought to know by now,” he said, voice soft, eyes glinting. “You ought to know that I’ll always come back to you.”

Crowley stared up at him, mouth slack. The lights flickered, buzzing, and in the back room and hallway all his plants shivered violently, as if a great invisible wind had swept through the flat. They both glanced up, and then back at each other.

“So,” Crowley said after a moment, desperately trying to keep his voice level. “What’s your plan? Countryside?”

“No, no. Still too populated, and the, erm… _radius_ of the effect seems to heighten when we’re both… more excitable.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, delightfully red, but recovered with a determined little smile. “Luckily, I have some ideas.”

\----------

67 And the Angel and the Demon arrived in the Highlands, where the wind swept cold over the rocks and flocks of sheep grazed peaceful, and the Demon looked upon the Angel and spoke unto him, saying ‘This was your idea?’

68 And the Angel said ‘Well I didn’t hear you coming up with anything better’, and looked out across the land, upon which he said, ‘I thought perhaps it might be warmer.’

69 And the Demon said unto him, ‘Giving the sheep a bit of a show, are we’, and the Angel rebuked him, and neither spoke of it again.

\----------

Jan Mayen wasn’t any better. “This is _worse_ than the Highlands, angel,” Crowley muttered, hands stuffed in his armpits and collar up around his ears. “By quite a bit, actually. Were you aware of that before you had us come out here?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, staring out at the white-capped mountains in the distance. The sea rolled by in deep blue waves below the rocky shoreline, foam lapping at the rocky cliffs. “Why are all the least-populated places on Earth the most miserable?” he asked at last, seemingly more to himself than Crowley.

“Because if they weren’t, they’d be more populated, obviously. Come on, don’t look at me like that. We’ll figure something out, long as you don’t keep shooting down my ideas.”

Aziraphale gave him another, longer look, blank as the cloudless sky overhead.

“You turned down _Alpha Centauri_ because there wasn’t enough ambiance.”

“Well, there wasn’t!” Aziraphale protested, tugging his scarf up around his ears. “Excuse me for wanting a little atmosphere.”

“Oh, sure, Norway’s got loads of atmosphere. I can practically taste the romance.” Crowley eyed him. “Any other bright ideas?”

“The Falklands,” Aziraphale said miserably. “Which doesn’t solve the problem of the sheep.”

“Nor the cold.” Crowley put an arm around his shoulders—it was still a novelty, that he could even think to do such a thing, but the way Aziraphale leaned into his side indicated that it was more than welcome. “What about somewhere warm? The Australian outback, or the Amazon?”

“Too many poisonous things for my tastes.” Aziraphale sighed, pressing his forehead into the crook of Crowley’s neck. “Oh, let’s just go back and go for a drive, clear our heads. This isn’t helping matters.”

“You want to go for a drive,” Crowley said, surprised.

“As long as you promise to keep it somewhat leisurely. Below one hundred and twenty, perhaps.”

Crowley hid a smile. “No promises.”

\----------

As it turned out, Aziraphale’s suggestion was a good one—it didn’t solve anything, but the crisp night air and the winding country roads did quiet Crowley’s jangling nerves after some time, and he found himself easing his grip on the steering wheel as they drove back towards London, windows down and radio off. It seemed to agree with the Bentley, as well, since they’d gone the entire night thus far without a single malfunction. Aziraphale leaned against the passenger door, gazing out the window as trees and road unraveled alongside them. He was smiling, and with the way the moonlight settled on his face, Crowley was having a difficult time keeping his attention on the road.

“I suppose you want me to drop you at yours,” he said, tearing his gaze away with some effort. Aziraphale shifted in his periphery.

“Best not to risk it, I think.”

“Right, right.” The road curved, and Crowley followed it with a lazy motion of his wrist, one hand on the wheel and the other arm out the window. “Lunch tomorrow, then?”

“Lunch sounds splendid.”

“Indian? Could go for a curry.”

“I was actually hoping we might do Luca—you know, that lovely Italian place in Clerkenwell. They serve the most delicious ravioli.”

“Overpriced,” Crowley said, mostly just to see him splutter, and the ensuing banter about where to dine lasted them until they arrived at the bookshop, where he pulled up to idle in a position that minorly impeded the flow of traffic and popped the locks on the door.

“See? Back in one piece.”

“Thank you for driving normally for once,” Aziraphale said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I know today didn’t go as planned, but this evening has been rather nice.” He waved off Crowley’s scoff and took his hand, fingers entwining between their seats. “I mean it. And now we’ll both sleep on it, and come up with something better tomorrow.”

“Right,” Crowley said, and then the Bentley revved beneath his feet without warning and lurched forward, jolting them both in their seats. Aziraphale’s knee smacked the glovebox, and he yelped; it popped open, and a cascade of CDs, sunglasses, and brochures came tumbling out, bouncing off his lap and scattering around his feet.

“Really, Crowley, you ought to clean this thing out sometimes,” Aziraphale admonished, scooping up CDs and paper and stuffing them back into the glovebox with a pinched expression. Crowley was gearing up to snap at him when he froze, hunched over in his seat with a brochure clutched in his fist, and his irritation turned to curiosity in an instant.

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale smoothed the brochure out, tilting it so the streetlight hit it. Silently, he and Crowley looked it over. It was an old travel brochure, creased from the glovebox, and the front showed off a picture of a beautiful green island, white sands gleaming in the sun and deep blue water off the shore. Stylish white text spanned across the bottom.

“Samson, The Isles of Scilly,” Aziraphale read aloud, and Crowley’s eyebrow shot up. He lowered it almost immediately. Aziraphale opened the brochure, skimming it while Crowley drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, seized by an onset of impatient energy.

“Well?” he said at last. “What’s it say?”

Aziraphale finished reading, then folded it neatly before setting it back in the glovebox. When he looked at Crowley again, he was grinning.

“Tell me, dear boy,” he said. “How would you feel about a seaside holiday?”

**Author's Note:**

> 11Crowley knew perfectly well how it was pronounced. He just liked the little wrinkle that appeared between Aziraphale’s eyebrows whenever he botched it.[return to text]
> 
> 22One of Crowley’s ‘wish he’d thought of it first’s’, along with professional wrestling and Fyre Festival.[return to text]
> 
> 33It did, however, agree with Aziraphale about bebop. [return to text]
> 
> 44It had recently gained the ability to understand metaphor, and was enjoying the Hell out of it.[return to text]
> 
> 55Mostly because he was concerned about what the Bentley might do in front of Aziraphale to protest being run into a lamppost, curb, or any other number of obstacles.[return to text]
> 
> 66They’d already gotten distracted once and set off the alarms on every third card parked between there and Heathrow. [return to text]
> 
> 77It had worked, once, but it wasn’t Aziraphale calling, just a confused and somewhat frightened solicitor who’d felt compelled to dial his number at that exact moment. Clearly, Crowley had decided, a more refined touch was in order.[return to text]


End file.
